


The Identical Belstaff

by martinsbae



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-21
Updated: 2015-05-29
Packaged: 2018-03-31 12:34:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3978223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/martinsbae/pseuds/martinsbae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has still not come to terms with the death of Sherlock. He drives away his last chance of happiness with Mary as he finally realizes his feelings towards the detective were stronger than he thought.<br/>He's brought back into the life of crimes and murderers and late night chases when Sherlock returns.<br/>Both having spent such time apart from each other, their feelings towards each other can't help but grow.<br/>A Johnlock story with fluff and some smut.<br/>Please enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

I remember when I felt alive. I remember when the world blossomed in colour and each person's face held an entirety of secrets that I would know, if I'd only ask. I remember the feeling of exhilaration and fear, holding a gun again and pulling the trigger for something, or someone, I believed in. I had believed in the army. And I had believed in Sherlock. I remember feeling alive. I remember.

 

I force my eyes open, once again lost in my thoughts of guns and protection and taxi drivers. I see everything I expect, nothing out of the ordinary, nothing new. My desk. A doctor's desk. It's filled with pamphlets and and leaflets about various bacteria and diseases. Ready to hand. The trust worthy, reliable doctor. I guess that is me now.

 

I check my watch. Five minutes till the end of lunch. I run my two hands across my face, hoping the images of dark black curls and long coats would be wiped away with them. But of course they aren't. They never are.

 

My lunch break is the only time I let myself think of him. Of when I felt alive. Each lunch I spend with my eyes closed and recount a different case. _The game is on._ And I believe it. In that hour of my break from reality, I let myself be swept away again into endless chases around London and Chinese gangs and tall, pale beautiful seductresses named Irene. I pretend it's the same. I even smile sometimes. “A rabbit John!” even caused me to laugh once, when I imagined it. I pretend it's the same. But of course it isn't. It's nowhere near. Eventually, we all have to open our eyes, and endure the day ahead.

 

That was a lie. Of course it was. I think of him all of the time, not just my lunch breaks. It's hard not to. But I have another life now. One with sweet, beautiful Mary. I'm happy with her. I am. I tell myself this again and again. I am happy.

 

 

That night I woke up screaming. My T-shirt was stuck to me with sweat and I couldn't get my breathing under control.

“Ssh, John, it's okay, I'm here” Mary's voice soothed me from her side of the bed, her head turned aside with her eyes still closed. 

 

It calms me some, but she still doesn't realise it is not her I need here. The realisation hits me again, still as hard as the first night after I saw him jump. Mary can't see me as I cover my mouth with both hands to hold in my sob. The insides of my eyelids turn red and I can't shake the images of him falling. The ways his arms out stretched and he fell. It took forever. I was just watching. Helpless. Why did you make me watch Sherlock?  _Keep your eyes fixed on me._ Why did you make me?

 

Feeling sick I get up, the walls suddenly too small. Mary doesn't stir, she's used to this. I don't sleep much at all these days. I go to the kitchen and drink some water, concentrating only on the way it cools my throat. I drain it and put my head in my hands, thinking.

 

His eyes. The way they just  _stared_ . I held his hand. I took his pulse. And then I couldn't let go. They took him away, his curls soaked in blood. I need to stop this. It's been two years. But if I don't remember everything exactly as it happened, I might forget. And I cannot forget. That's one thing I'm certain of.  _Caring is not an advantage._ No shit Sherlock.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to Baker Street, brother dear.

 

 

Mary and me don't work out. She ended it. I don't blame her. We had one big argument that finished us. I was sad to see her go, I hope she finds happiness now. More than she did with me. Mary's not stupid either. 

 

It happened on a Tuesday night. I thought everything was fine with us. She walked towards me where I was sitting, watching the news with little interest.

“I'm leaving you” she said. I didn't feel anything. I've hit a new height of carelessness; I just sat there. “I can't match him, John, and never will. I can't continue this relationship when the other person is in love with someone else”.

 

It was that moment that I realised she was right. I  _did_ love Sherlock. Perhaps I always had. The epiphany did nothing to me though, no use loving a dead man. 

 

“I understand how hard this has been on you.” she began, tears rolling off her face. “When I fell in love with you, I knew you were grieving, I knew it would take time for you to heal. But it's been two years, John. You're still not over it. I've done my waiting. I'm sorry, I can't wait for you any more”. And she left.

 

It took us a while to sort out what we'd do with our house. I didn't have much money and I could never leave London. I had only one choice where to go.

 

Today is the day I move back to Baker Street. That place is haunted for me, I haven’t set foot there since that day. But I have nowhere else to go. And a part of me wants to return. It would make pretending so much easier. I don't even have to imagine Baker Street any more, just Sherlock. The door to 221B floods back memories, but instead of running, like I thought I'd do, I quicken my pace, wanting more than anything to open it again. The door knocker is to the side and my mind thinks of Mycroft. He couldn't be here, surely. It's just a coincidence. 

 

I knock, even though I still have a key. Even though Mrs Hudson expects me, I don't want to barge in on her, she's had enough drama in her life. The door opens and her face immediately lights up when she sees me.

“John! Oh, come in, come in!” she exclaims, pulling me into a tight hug and kissing my cheek. It's familiar and welcoming. I wish I had come back sooner. I'm pulled into the hall and my eyes shoot up to the stairs. _You invaded Afghanistan._ Pain at the memory seeps through me but I'll take it. Memories of him are always painful. But I'll take the pain. I'll take the pain for him.

“Mrs Hudson, how are you? I've missed you” I say, realising how truthful I'm being. 

“I'm alright dear. Just my hip” she says in-between sniffles. Still at the herbal soothers then. The fact brings a broad smile to my face that I haven't had in a long time. I should have come here sooner! Even if only to see Mrs Hudson. 

“I'm so happy you're moving back here! Why don't you go ahead and bring your bags upstairs? I'll make some tea for you, but just this once, dear.” _I'm not your housekeeper._ Another smile. Some things never change. For that I'm grateful. 

 

It takes one trip to bring all my things upstairs. I throw my bags down on the floor and look at the place that had once been my home and now will be again. My breath catches in my throat. Everything is the same. The two armchairs, the skull, the wallpaper. It's like the last two years never happened. I can easily imagine Sherlock is out on a case and I'm returning with the shopping or coming home from work. 

 

I go into the kitchen. There are only a few of Sherlock's old science equipment, I assume Mrs Hudson put them away or gave them to a school. There aren't any thumbs in the fridge or severed heads. It's bare and impersonal. I'll have to change that. I don't know whether I can get my hands on any severed heads though. 

 

Taking a deep breath, I open the door to Sherlock's bedroom. The bed is unmade with books thrown all over it. Clothes cover the floor and newspaper cuttings are still stuck to a wall. Some of the books have notes in. The word “dull” used often. The absence of him begins to take on a sharper form. I feel comfortable being back, I think I could settle in here. But I'll have to get rid of the armchair. Or move it. It just reminds me of what's lost. I go to it and stroke the sides and allow a single tear to roll down my cheek onto it, the place where he used to sit and we used to laugh.

 


	3. Chapter 3

To much of my surprise, I find I fit back into the schedule I once had. I sleep, I eat, I drink, I work. It becomes more than schedule, like a prayer. Sleep, eat, drink, work. Sleep, eat, drink, work. I balance myself. I try to pay as much attention to each. I sleep 8 hours a day, if I can. I eat healthily and enough. I drink water and only alcohol on the weekends. And I work. Always I work. Sleep, eat, drink and work. Sleep, eat, drink and work. And it works. I tell myself it works. It's how I survive, this diligent schedule. I follow my own instructions with an iron hand. I adjust to Baker Street. It is almost the same. It is almost as if nothing has changed. It is almost as if I am the man I used to be. It is almost as if I am happy, alive, again. Almost. Always almost. 

But I slip up. I follow my schedule. My "survival guide" I call it it my head. I laugh at that thought, then realize my laughter echoes in the flat. It bounces off the never changing walls and comes back to me flat. My laughter stops. My schedule slips up.

I sleep. But I don't sleep. I lie on my bed and stare and the ceiling. I look at the pale cream paint work. I wonder who painted it and why they picked that colour. Cream. Why cream? And I can't find the answer. I try every night. It never comes. And then it occurs to me that the knowledge of why the ceiling is cream will bring me no solace at all. The colour cream is of no importance. it bores me. The colour cream annoys me now and I can't sleep. I turn on my side so I can't look at the ceiling. But then I look at the walls. Cream. After another week, I can't stand it. I get up, and I walk to Sherlock's room. I lie here. The ceiling is pale blue. It's calming. I can sleep now. Sherlock's room is blue. I will sleep here from now on. But I don't sleep. Of course I don't. I lie and I stare at the blue and imagine what Sherlock thought when he would stare up at the ceiling like I do. I don't sleep much. 

I eat. But I don't eat. Food bores me. The taste becomes mundane. The effort of cooking is not worth it. I eat take aways regularly. The taste is familiar. It brings back memories. Always memories. The few times I got Sherlock to eat, he enjoyed the taste of Chinese food. We would sit in front of the telly, eating and talking about nothing in particular. And to me it seems like heaven. My mind wanders. I forget about the food. It sits untouched whilst I am lost in my memories. I don't eat much. 

One thing I excel at is to drink. I began with regular water. I drank fruit juices, smoothies, tea. But then I turned to alcohol more. I drink on weekends. Lots. I drink until I became intoxicated. I love it. The world becomes better, more out of focus. It makes it easier for me to leave briefly. I get lost in my thoughts again. I remember ebony curls, bow shaped lips and long Belstaff coats. It becomes more focused. I almost don't care that I seem to be going mad. Almost. And then I drink every night. Each night I spend on the sofa with my unfinished Chinese takeaway by my side. Mrs. Hudson shouts. I don't hear her. 

I work. I heal, offer support to people. I hand out leaflets, give prescriptions. My patients respect me, as do my co-workers. But my mind wavers. I don't focus. My lunch break "treat" isn't a treat anymore, not when I think about Sherlock every bloody second of the day. I'm a bloody good doctor. If anything since Sherlock's death, I am even better. But my head is not in my work. My head is never in my work.

I adjust to my schedule. I live in Baker Street. I don't sleep, eat, drink or work like I used to. But it helps me. It truly is my "survival guide".


End file.
